


Bottle Rocket

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, Blood and Injury, Choking, Denial of Feelings, Hate Sex, Hatred, Jealousy, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Punching, Rough Sex, Secrets, Spit As Lube, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26071426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: Haizaki takes a step in his direction and something stirs within him, shakes his bones like a chill wind that penetrates him to the marrow. It's not the physical threat that scratches at the surface of Kise's skin like a parcel of mites, it's the darkness that's swallowing Haizaki up whole and turning him inside out.
Relationships: Haizaki Shougo/Kise Ryouta
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	Bottle Rocket

Kise hadn't expected Haizaki to stay behind—much less long enough that the rest of his team has gone home for the night, and what few bystanders remained have long since left the building.

Now, Kise fights for breath as he scratches the backs of the hands clutching at his throat. The increasing pressure makes tears spill over the long lines of his lashes, glistening streaks that dampen the ends of his pineapple-colored strands. He can taste cherries and sugar on his tongue and something acerbic in the back of his throat. He tries to frame his lips on speech but the fingers pressing against the sides of his neck and his cut-off breathing make it impossible to produce sound. Briefly, Kise wonders if Haizaki is planning on killing him here tonight.

Excluding himself and the boy sitting on his chest, the gymnasium is empty. Basketballs litter the floor in addition to a single jacket, abandoned for the sake of the game. The atmosphere is as dismal as Kise's suspicion and the air is pregnant with a strong sense of unease. The quiet that spreads through the large space unsettles Kise, turns the echo of his anxiously drawn breathing into an ironic lament.

If Kise wasn't so familiar with this place, he could easily convince himself, as Aomine once had at Teikō, that the building was preyed upon by the supernatural.

Kise manages a shallow breath but the oxygen he inhales tastes stagnant, it burns his throat and catches in his lungs, making him sputter and cough. The sweetness on his tongue dissolves into the bitterness of bile and he has to battle his body's responsive urge to vomit. His vision blurs and the room begins to tip sideways; the edges of his sight are overwhelmed by darkness and he feels like he's viewing the world between the cracks of his fingers.

Haizaki finally surrenders his hold on Kise's throat and the blond seizes the sudden opportunity to throw Haizaki's balance off just enough to rid himself of the weight crushing his chest. He rolls over onto his side and curls into himself reflexively. He inhales sharply, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he chokes on the breath that enters his lungs. He absentmindedly rubs the base of his throat, his fingers settling into the lingering shapes of Haizaki's cruel touch.

Kise shoots Haizaki a baleful, half-sneering glance as he struggles to pull himself upright. “You're an asshole,” he manages, voice thick and grating. He knows that come tomorrow, he'll bear the marks of Haizaki's touch in the shades of an autumn sunset. He isn't sure how he feels about that.

“Don't act like this is new information to you,” Haizaki scoffs, and just as Kise's succeeded in picking himself up off the floor, he drives his fist into Kise's rib cage. Kise doubles over and clutches his side, wheezing. Haizaki watches Kise stumble, saliva hanging from his lips in a thin strand as he presses his shoulder against the nearest wall for support.

“Of course not, but that doesn't excuse you coming here and trying to _kill_ me.” Kise dodges Haizaki's fist, this time aimed at his face, his hand still clutching his side. He wipes at the spit on his mouth with the back of his hand and narrows his eyes at Haizaki. “Look, I know that me outperforming you must have hurt your pride but I can't help that I'm better than you. That's part of the game, someone has to get driven out from time to time, and with the way you behave your dismissal was inevitable. _You're_ the one who messed this up, not me.” Kise's tone runs along the vein of sympathy but his ire is evident behind each eloquent syllable.

Kise feels overcome and worn by the day's impressions, like a ship battered by the waves. He feels cheated and burned, and he hates that Haizaki had the foresight to use his injury against him—not because he had hoped for sympathy but for the fact that Haizaki traded his talent for such a lowbrow tactic. Kise isn't above admitting that Haizaki is proficient in the art of basketball, he acknowledges his ability and even appreciates it, but he can't commend his skill when he has the earmarks of a dirty athlete.

Haizaki is staring at him with an expression so full of loathing that Kise feels it in his nerves. If he were to trace the hard lines on Haizaki's face he would delineate the paroxysm of emotion which is discouraged in Kise's heart. The disgust and hatred burning behind his cold eyes make something even icier trickle down Kise's spine and he shivers so violently it almost hurts.

“I hate you, Kise. I always have and I always will. You don't deserve shit from me now and you sure as shit didn't deserve my spot on the team then!” Haizaki aims his fist at the wall keeping Kise upright, and when his knuckles connect with the hard surface, Kise winces as if he can feel the contact spread through his own hand. Haizaki, however, shows no signs of discomfort. If he feels any injury, it's obvious that he'd rather glare at Kise like his gaze has the power to eradicate him from the face of the earth than focus on the pain.

Kise smears moisture into the cracks that line his mouth, already dry despite the spittle that coated them only moments ago. Haizaki takes a step in his direction and something stirs within him, shakes his bones like a chill wind that penetrates him to the marrow. It's not the physical threat that scratches at the surface of Kise's skin like a parcel of mites, it's the darkness that's swallowing Haizaki up whole and turning him inside out.

In the quieter parts of Kise's mind, in the gossamer webs that lie tangled in the darkest recesses of his memory, he's intrigued. A part of him longs to push Haizaki, to goad him to extremity just to see what he's capable of—how far he's willing to take things with Kise as the stimulus. It's a side of himself that he doesn't speak about and he knows, that unless someone physically reaches inside of him and draws it out, he likely never will.

And in all fairness, it's not as simple as putting words on paper because Kise doesn't fully understand these parts of himself. He suspects that Kuroko would be the only one who could gain the slightest understanding of what Kise feels, the longing for something bigger, something darker, something beyond the pale. It comes down to fascination, a quest for the demons of enigmatic riddles that lie dormant inside each of us; if darkness is truly a religion, then Kise is a postulant for admission to the creed.

Kise likes people best when they're falling apart.

Notwithstanding his curiosity, Kise holds up his hand in a gesture meant to keep Haizaki from coming any closer. “Stop, Shōgo. Hurting me isn't going to put you back on the team. Those days are long over, and I can promise you that even if you managed to incapacitate me, nothing is going to change. You won't take my seat and you won't get anything out of the other Miracles. I don't expect you to bury the hatchet but you need to let this go.”

Kise knows that trying to expostulate with Haizaki on this subject is akin to beating a dead horse. Haizaki is too obstinate, too unyielding, and Kise is too exhausted to waste energy on a lost cause. He can hear how tired he is by the fatigue in his voice and he's starting to feel it in his limbs. As much as he's tempted by Haizaki's cunning disposition, he knows that he needs to end this and call it a night. He opens his mouth to speak but a yawn overtakes the shape of his lips and Haizaki is quick to intervene.

“You think you're really something, don't you?” Haizaki spits, his eyes awash with rage. “Every one of you thinks that you're irreplaceable, something _special_ to marvel at. That fucking name makes me sick. You're not miracles, you're a group of goddamned disasters, and the only thing you have is a piece of paper with the name of a prestigious school on it. _That's_ what gave your precious notoriety.”

Kise shakes his head and exhales a winded sigh. “I'll stand here and take a lot of shit from you so we can move past this but I won't let you trash-talk my friends. We've all worked hard for the reputations that we have, some more than others maybe, but we earned our titles as prodigies no differently than you earned a spot on your team. I can't change the fact that you're hung up on the past or that you're jealous...”

“Ah, there it is,” Haizaki interjects. “You're so high up on your pedestal that you think the rest of us want to be just like you. It would be impossible not to become vain or petty or jealous in your presence.”

“That's not what I meant and you know it,” Kise snaps, his voice rising to clarity for the first time since Haizaki had his hands wrapped around his throat. “You're just looking for any excuse you can find to hate me, to _hurt_ me, and it isn't going to take away your insecurities!”

“Insecurities,” Haizaki scoffs, the word like a hiss on a serpent's tongue. “And no, it might not _solve_ anything—but I'm not here to play the part of a fucking detective—if hurting you makes me feel better, then I guess we're just gonna have to call a spade a spade.”

Kise stands his ground as Haizaki closes in on him, prepared for a barrage of fists but unconvinced that he'll be able to fight back in his current state. He can feel heat emanating from Haizaki in waves and tries not to flinch when he raises his hand but the motion comes naturally. Haizaki laughs cruelly and the sound of it curls around Kise's spine like barbed wire.

“You know, I've fucked a lot of blondes but none of them have seemed quite as simpleminded as you,” Haizaki berates. “Is that part of being a prodigy? I mean you can't have it all, right?”

Kise narrows his eyes but before he can formulate a verbal response, Haizaki snakes a hand around his neck and tugs him forward. Kise, caught off guard, stumbles toward Haizaki and winces as pain lances through his leg. His hips collide with Haizaki's hard enough that an ache spreads through the slight jut of bone but the sound of injury on Kise's lips is dismantled by a bruising kiss.

Kise's eyes grow wide in surprise, his pupils dilating enough to crowd his gilded irises. He doesn't respond, finds that he can only stand rooted to the spot, body listless, and still. Haizaki breaks the kiss as fast as he initiated it, and Kise can't find balance in the aftershock or the hands shoving against his chest. He falls back against the wall behind him and struggles against the lights that stipple his vision like tiny stars of disorientation. His mind is reeling and all logical subtleties that existed before their lips met now render him baffled.

Kise feels Haizaki's knuckles, scratchy and torn, glance the low of his abdomen before the jersey weave of his shorts and the cotton threads of his boxers are shoved to his knees. Shock and protest crowd his throat simultaneously and the only sound that breaks into audibility is a note of disbelief. If Haizaki hears it, he doesn't acknowledge it, and instead, he wraps his hand around Kise's cock. His grip is firm and unyielding, the callouses that dot his palm give way to friction that is both pleasurable and off-putting at the same time. But when he tightens his hold and begins to work Kise to full hardness, the strange sensation melts into pure satisfaction.

Haizaki's eyes are trained on Kise's body as it responds against reason and Kise feels as if the skin has been stripped from his frame. He feels exposed down to his bones and regardless of possible risk or the obscurity of the unknown, he's grateful when Haizaki bodily spins him around to face the wall. His shoulder collides with the wall but the hand that knots itself in his hair draws the pain away from the aching joint to the burning line of his scalp.

Haizaki presses Kise's face up against the wall as he slicks his middle and forefingers with saliva. It's an ineffectual attempt at sincerity and when he shoves the two digits into Kise's unprepared entrance, the blond cries out in discomfort. Kise's nails scratch at the wall and his body draws tight in reflexive response but internally, he's savoring the onslaught of sensation, relishing the fusion of pain and pleasure.

Kise can't catch up to the thoughts running circles around his head, can't outpace the way his body is aching and burning with the need for more. Haizaki removes his hand from the crown of Kise's head to pin his left arm behind his back, holds him in place needlessly because objection is the furthest thought making an impression on Kise's current state of mind.

Haizaki curls his fingers in against Kise's slick warmth and his touch hits a chord inside of Kise that strings him into sound, has his body singing a song of desperation that thrums like desire beneath Haizaki's skin. Kise emits a cry of impatience crossbred with longing and he's already pressing his forehead against the wall in an attempt to cool the fever turning to sweat along the line of his brow.

“Fuck,” Kise whispers, a dry sob catching in his parched throat as the last grains of his control fall away. He can't assimilate this sudden change, the chain of events that hang like a heavy stone around his neck. It's pulling him down a slippery slope and he's losing traction like he's entirely lost the ability to process his thoughts.

Haizaki somehow works his fingers in deeper and with a twist of his wrist, Kise buckles under the auspicious weight of sexual gratification. His legs are trembling with the effort of keeping him upright and Haizaki can feel the quake of around his fingers. He's fucking Kise loose and raw and wet, and he knows by the sounds around his fingers and Kise's lapse into incoherence that it's nearly destroying him.

Kise sinks his teeth into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The sharpness of iron, however, loses its edge when compared to the whitecaps and turbulent sea roiling in his gut. He feels sick to his stomach and cut down to size but the more Kise sinks into the dirt, the livelier he feels—the pollution and the corruption breathe more life into his veins, and the holes in his soul begin to fill with a substance that has the power to supplant the hollowness of his existence.

Haizaki's fingers slide free of his body and Kise wants to protest the loss but Haizaki is quick to press the head of his cock against Kise's entrance. Kise can feel the breath begin to leave his lungs again, but this time it's not for lack of oxygen. He inhales as much air as his body will allow and tries to relax. Somewhere tangled deep within the trenches of his psyche he hates that he's accepting this so willingly but he wants to be fucked more than he cares to put up a fight.

With a single push, Haizaki roots himself in Kise's body, his chest against the blond's back, and teeth sinking into the curve of a shoulder. Kise fits around him like a glove, inclusive of traction and the catch of a leather-bound hand on damp skin. Haizaki didn't plan for this, didn't get so far as to think about the repercussions or the possibility that Kise could feel this good. The stretch and the burn and the ache that cuts the divide between them builds the perfect storm and Haizaki feels like he's being swept into its undertow.

Kise's cock brushes against the wall when Haizaki drives his body forward and he can feel his cheeks flush when he spots a trail of precome on its surface. The heat only grows with each thrust, Haizaki's contempt breathing like fire into Kise's veins—each undulation is driven by hatred and the intent to cause Kise harm, whether physical or mental, he isn't entirely sure. He only knows that each drag of friction leaves him weak in the knees and hoping for more.

He had no way of foretelling his current situation but he doesn't know how he's going to avail himself of this memory long enough to practice properly when the time comes. His heart tells him to retreat but his brain convinces him that Haizaki won't be quick to back down no matter what he tries, so he surrenders to the friction and the heat under the pretense that this is mandatory to make it through the night.

Kise wonders if he's lost his mind and if he has, exactly where and when he abandoned it for this anencephalous matter replete with debauchery and something much darker. It's a question he's been dancing around for years, but every time he thinks that it's time for him to get off of this carousel, he veers back onto the stallion's course.

Haizaki fucks into Kise like he's carving a scar into Kise's brain and the inscription spells out his name. He could have guessed that Kise had a few loose screws but he never imagined that things would go this far, that Kise would be so responsive, so amenable—and something about that compliance sets Haizaki's teeth on edge.

Haizaki shifts the hand at Kise's hip up to his rib cage to dig his fingers in against his intercostal muscles. Kise's breath hitches and Haizaki feels his cock swell at both the sound and the evidence that he's hurting the blond.

But Haizaki can't see what's right in front of him; the twitch of Kise's stiff member, wet with precome and as flushed as the blood that collects at its head. He can't see the pleasure that spreads to light in his eyes, or the shape of his mouth, slack on heat and damp with saliva. More importantly, he has yet to recognize that the proverbial smoking gun he's aiming between Kise's eyes only proves to excite him more. Haizaki could press the edge of a blade to Kise's throat, could betray his trust time and again, and Kise would learn to like the feeling of being stabbed in the back.

In Kise's eyes, the brush of death and the promise of danger tastes like ambrosia, feels orgasmic, and no amount of pain would be enough to keep him from coming back.

Haizaki drags his hand over the ridge of Kise's rib cage like he's grasping at the rungs of a ladder. His touch is an afflictive, dark dispensation of what he feels toward Kise, a representation of his contempt and loathing. Kise trembles and gasps for breath and Haizaki wants nothing more than to tear at the skin beneath his nails and break the bones underneath. But if Haizaki carried out every terrible thing he wanted to do to people, he wouldn't be a free man, so he settles on a more pragmatic approach: he presses his lips to the shell of Kise's ear and tells him how he feels.

“I want you to suffer, to experience true pain. I want you marked with blood and broken bones. I want you to know what it feels like to hate someone as much as I hate you. I want you to remember this, to never go a single second without thinking about me. Maybe then, you'll understand what kind of hell you've put me through.” Haizaki spits his words like venom, hoping that the toxin in his blood will poison Kise's heart.

Kise shakes his head in place of verbal response because he can feel himself cresting the ridge of his impending descent into carnal intemperance. Furthermore, despite his want to negate Haizaki's words, he knows that nothing he says will break through the heart of the cyclone at his back. And just like the destructive winds of a summer storm, pleasure rips through Kise; lightning branches through him as Haizaki's cock inadvertently finds his prostate and temptation shakes within him like a rumble of thunder. His thighs quiver and his heart begins to quake, then suddenly he rounds the moon with stars behind his eyes. Nebulous streaks of come sully the wall and stripe his abdomen, and the contraction is enough to pull Haizaki out of this plane and into the galaxy with him.

Haizaki spills himself to completion inside of Kise but he's quick to withdraw from his body, not wanting Kise to misconstrue the nature of the sentiment. He digs his fingers into Kise's skin and forces him to turn around. Kise rolls his shoulder against the wall and slumps against the hard surface, not trusting his ability to stand otherwise. He faces Haizaki with half-lidded, heat-glazed eyes, exhaustion and euphoria swimming through his gaze in equal parts.

“This is what you're good for,” Haizaki tells him, hoping that his words are enough to drive a spiteful spear into his side. He fastens his jeans into place and wipes the emission that catches on his skin across the large '7' printed across Kise's jersey. “You're gonna find out real soon that some things were never meant to flourish and are better left to rot.” Haizaki pats Kise's cheek with a touch of condescension, then begins to make his way toward the gym's exit doors.

With Haizaki gone, Kise commits himself to gravity and slides down to the floor. He can't be bothered by the slick pooling beneath him or the way the temperature of the room is touching places that shouldn't be exposed to it. Kise cards his hands through his hair as he tries to fumble for some sense of comprehension, something to make sense of all that transpired. He hangs his head and chews on the bottom line of his mouth. When he comes up with nothing but the internal imitations of his unsoundness, he settles on lack of sleep and poor judgment.

When Kise finally manages to raise his head, his vision is blurry and the opposite side of the gym seems miles away from where he's sitting. He thinks about calling someone but he's still a cut above the indignities that he has suffered and allowed. So he drags himself up off the floor, pulls his bottoms up to his sore hips, and shoulders the wall until the bleachers become his guide. He thinks that he'll sleep here tonight but first, he needs to wash the heat and the come and the shame from his skin.

Meanwhile, Haizaki chases the echo of his footfalls as his sneakers batter the pavement beneath him. The sound is unsettling somehow, but it's preferred to the carping criticism running rampant through his head. He can't shake the way Kise felt in his hands any easier than he can loosen his grip on the resentment he feels for the group so many have deemed sensational.

He wishes that even if only for a single moment, Kise could feel the anguish that wakes him up in the middle of the night, twisting hot and deep in his chest. He yearns for understanding more than he cares to admit. He's a broken wicket in a gate made of gold, a withered apple by the stake, and he hates that he's been so easily cast aside. He knows that he's fucked up, that he's made poor choices and grave mistakes, but he's not any less human than the rest of them. And what's more, is that Kise's false god himself is arguably the worst of the bunch.

He bites down on his tongue until he tastes blood and curls his hands into fists so tight his knuckles ache. He thinks about going home but he might as well drink kerosene and watch himself light up inside because the place between those four walls is a burial ground.

He settles on a place where he can deny himself the burdens of emotional heartache—a place where he can freely cause pain and suffering without restrictions or consequences. He can drink himself into a stupor and drain himself of the person he's become until he can't see straight. He can pin his feelings onto someone else, someone he doesn't have to answer to, and it's easier this way, easier to hate than to swallow the bitter pill some call empathy.

Yet, he can't get rid of this crippling feeling that cuts him to the core. He asks himself why it has to be Kise, the one that he hates the most. He feels like he's given in, like he's allowed something parasitic into his body knowing that it's capable of damaging his vital organs. He wonders if he's predestined to be damned and if his suffering and pain are aggregates of karma or expressions of the divine will, but Haizaki doesn't believe in fate. He only knows that he can't cast out the disease that's bled itself into the ethos of his satiric persona like a snakebite that festers the heart with venom.

He tears at his bottom lip until blood stains the edges of his teeth. He stiffens his right leg and transfers all of his energy into the ground, the hostility in his veins driving him through the desolate street. He runs like he can outpace what he knows to be true, as if the bottom line hasn't already slipped his neck in the shape of a noose.

Haizaki's mental acuity sharpens and he tries to concentrate on his objective while somewhere in the back of his mind, he can hear echoes of his mother telling him not to play with fire. But he's been chasing the spark for a long time, and now he's just trying to contend with the wind.

He knows he shouldn't have stood so close to the flames.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
